Violetta Craft's Arc

Chapter 51 of 65

Monday morning Violetta unpacked her sewing machine in the front room. She set the fabric bolts on the shelf Jordie built Sunday night. She pinned a sketch to the wall: a strapless gown in deep blue, draped and knotted at the waist. Her next dress. Her own choice, no showcase deadline behind it. She threaded the machine and pressed the pedal to test the stitch. The doorbell rang at nine. A girl she half-recognized from the junior showcase stood on the porch with a phone in her hand. She wore a measuring tape around her neck like a scarf. "You're the one from the blog," the girl said. "The Craft profile. I just wanted to see your studio." Violetta had not seen the blog. She said so. The girl pulled it up and turned the screen. A photo of Violetta at the senior showcase filled the top. The headline called her the girl to beat next season. Her new address was not printed, but the town was small. Violetta thanked the girl and closed the door. By noon two more came. A boy with a portfolio. A woman who said she designed prom dresses and wanted to trade notes. Elowen woke crying each time the bell rang. Jordie carried her down the stairs on the third interruption and stood in the front room with the baby on his hip. "You can't work like this," he said. "I know." She looked at the sketch on the wall. Four cut pieces on the table. One bobbin wound. Three hours lost. She picked up her phone and called the number on the studio listing she had saved months ago, the polished space downtown with the glass front and the second-floor workroom. She asked about the monthly rate. She wrote the number on the back of an envelope. She could cover four months from the showcase prize. "I'm renting the studio," she told Jordie. "The one downtown. I'll work there. Home stays home." Jordie shifted Elowen to his other hip. "You sure?" "I need a door they can't find." She drove down that afternoon and signed the paperwork. The owner handed her a key on a plain ring. The workroom had north light and a long cutting table and a lock on the stairwell door. She carried her machine up in two trips. She hung the sketch on the wall above the table. At home that night Jordie fed Elowen mashed banana at the kitchen counter. Violetta sat across from them with the studio key on the table between her plate and his. "No one has this address but us," she said. "Good." She put the key in her pocket. The blog could hype her. The rivals could knock. They would knock on an empty porch. Her work moved out of the house tomorrow, and the dress on the wall was hers again.